Broken Down
by Mango Marbles
Summary: There are times when what's broken cannot be repaired. Tag to 13x11, Breakdown.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural.

* * *

He hears the gunshot, but feels nothing. Not that it's too disconcerting. A shot to the head has to be quick and about as painless as death can be. Still, he hesitates to open his eyes, uncertain of the sight that will greet him.

He manages to pry his eyes open and sees Dean standing off to the side, gun raised with a thin stream of smoke trailing from its barrel. His mouth moves, but Sam doesn't hear what he says. All he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears being pumped by a heart that shouldn't be beating anymore.

Dean moves closer, being careful to step over the body of the man who was almost Sam's murderer. He removes the straps keeping Sam restrained with shaky hands, and once Sam's own hands are free enough to help with the rest of the straps, he has a tough time telling who's shaking more.

When he's free and standing, he goes over to the laptop with the intention of shutting down the broadcast of what was meant to be his execution and subsequent dismemberment in exchange for disgusting amounts of money. But when he's looking at the screen, his brain can't process any of the words or symbols on it and his hands continue to shake as they hover over the keyboard. He feels like he's forgotten how to read completely, because nothing is making sense to him.

Dean takes matters into his own hands. He tears the camera from its tripod and throws it to the ground, stomping on it with a satisfying crunch for good measure afterwards.

"C'mon," he says. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Sam nods and swallows hard, the minuscule amount of saliva produced by his mouth traveling down his throat like a cluster of tiny rocks.

The few lights that still work in the hallway flicker and hum, and it leaves Sam with the impression that they aren't making much progress moving down the decrepit hall. They pass dark stains on the floor and walls that Sam knows must be the blood of victims who weren't as fortunate as he was. Victims who weren't rescued at the last moment before their death.

Dean keeps his hand wrapped around Sam's upper arm as Sam stumbles over his own feet and tries to keep down the bitter bile that repeatedly rises to burn the back of his throat. The stench of this place is foul and sickening, and Sam knows that it hasn't been cleaned at any point in recent history. Death, blood, and rot permeate and hang thick in the air, and if this place wasn't already haunted before, Sam would understand it being haunted now.

Those ghosts will be a case for another hunter to deal with. Sam's not coming back to this place.

When they finally make it out of the door and into fresh air, Sam falls to his knees and throws up on the pavement of the parking lot.

* * *

Most of the car ride is silent, except for the one conversation that Dean starts. He tries to say that things aren't as bad as Sam's seeing them right now. That he was a little harsh with Donna, and, yeah, he's in a—a whatever right now.

But Sam doesn't want to hear it. He tells Dean that this can only end bloody for them. It can only end bad.

And Dean doesn't try to start another conversation, thankfully letting their current one die.

Dean doesn't get it. Sam stares out of the window, and all he sees are the thousands upon thousands of monsters that are lurking out there without being detected. The ones that are smart enough to blend in. The ones that tried to buy pieces of him.

He wonders how many will be driven to go out and kill innocents, then end up getting themselves caught by hunters because their source of food from auctioning is gone.

He's on the verge of throwing up again, and his stomach aches at the thought of vomiting without any food to bring back up. It's all overwhelming. The fact that he was—once again—so close to death mere hours ago. The thought of all the monsters lurking in this world. How close they keep cutting it, and without any more second chances to come back into this world to see how many more monsters they can take down before they die one final time.

He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window and squeezes his eyes shut. He wants his mind to calm down for just a minute and give him time to catch his breath from the marathon it's been running since he was nine years old and found out how dark the world really is. He wants a moment of peace.

Even with his eyes closed, he feels Dean constantly glancing at him in between watching the road. He knows that Dean wants to help him through this and bring back the optimistic outlook that he so desperately held onto while Dean was in his own downward spiral, but he's not sure that he can be pulled from this depression this time.

He's not sure he wants to be.

* * *

Dean offers to order some pizza or takeout when they get back to the bunker, but Sam isn't hungry, and he suspects that Dean isn't either. Most likely, he's just trying to get food into Sam, who doesn't remember the last time he ate anything substantial. Besides, a near death experience doesn't exactly build up an appetite.

No, after a case like this, it's better to simply go to bed and try to forget that it ever happened. Add it to the list of cases that have left them shaken. The list of cases that will make appearances in their nightmares.

And leave it as that—a nightmare.

Sam bids goodnight to Dean, who looks like he's physically keeping himself from saying anything more than goodnight back, but he takes a shower before he actually goes to bed. He knows he won't be getting restful sleep tonight, so he might as well try to scrub away the layers of grime that built up on his skin, both real and imaginary.

He wishes that he could scrub away memories as easily as he can dirt from his skin.

The hot water steadies him, but only slightly. It takes away some of the shakiness from his limbs, but he's still shaken and that will take time to fade.

Sam doesn't see Dean when he finally closes himself in his bedroom. Dean knows what it's like to stare Death in the face in ways that are a little more literal than they are for most people, but he also knows what it's like to figuratively stare death in the face. It never gets easier.

But Dean's always been able to force himself to do their job until he snapped out of whatever slump he fell in. Sam isn't like that. He's spent his entire life trying to run from hunting, and now the hopelessness of knowing just how many monsters are really out there makes it all seem so pointless.

No matter how many creatures he kills, there will be hundreds more to take their place. Humans will never be completely safe, and the British Men of Letters' idea of a world where there are no deaths due to supernatural causes will never be more than a dream.

He lies down, his body exhausted while his mind remains restless.

He tosses and turns for what feels like hours, bouncing around from thought to thought, each new one as depressing as the last, until he finally falls asleep.

* * *

He sits up with a jolt in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and his legs twisted in his blankets. He doesn't even remember what he was dreaming about, but it doesn't really matter at this point. He's been through so much, his dreams tend to blur together these days, but they're never pleasant.

He runs a hand through his tangled hair, trying to push it back, but it falls back into his face immediately afterwards. In his chest, he feels his heart still beating too quickly and he's gasping like he just ran a marathon.

He was so close to dying a matter of hours ago. Lying back down to stare at the ceiling in the dark, he thinks about the millions of creatures out there that will likely never be caught. The creatures that know how to stay hidden from hunters. They've spent their entire lives hunting, and haven't made a dent in the supernatural population.

They could spend thirty or forty more years hunting, and they still wouldn't make a meaningful difference in the number of supernatural creatures out there.

The weight of that realization makes it difficult to breath. It makes everything seem so hopeless. So bleak.

What's the point? All the years they've wasted, the injuries they've sustained, the hurt, the loss. All of it, and for what?

What's the fucking point?

He grips the pillow from underneath his own head and tosses it at the wall. What's the fucking point of any of this? He's collected an assortment of personal nightmares and literal Hell for nothing.

He almost wants to laugh. He spent years trying to escape the hunting life. Then, when he finally embraces it and accepts that it's all there is for him, he learns that it doesn't even matter.

Sleep won't be returning to him any time soon, not that it ever comes easily in the first place. So, he stares. He stares into the darkness and lets it drown him.

He doesn't have the energy for anything else.

* * *

His clock tells him that it's well into the morning when he hears knocking at his door. Just as he guessed, he wasn't able to fall back asleep. He spent the night turning and getting tangled in his own thoughts.

Still, he's not in the mood for talking.

There are more knocks, and Dean says, "C'mon, Sam. I know you're awake in there."

Of course, he's awake. He hasn't had a good night's sleep in… well, he can't remember how long.

"If you don't answer, I'm coming in whether you want me to or not," Dean says.

That's usually a last resort these days. Since they've been given the opportunity to live in separate rooms instead of suffocating each other in motel rooms, they've respected their individual rooms as sanctuaries. Places that aren't entered without permission or cause for concern.

This scenario, Sam assumes, is the cause for concern excuse.

Dean knocks once last time, then lets himself in.

Sam watches him close the door behind him and sit on the edge of the bed.

"We gotta talk," Dean says. "You gotta let me help you, man."

Sam turns his head away.

"Hey, don't do that. Let me in, Sam. Please. Tell me what's going on in that big head of yours."

"What's the point?" Sam asks.

"The point is to get you out of this funk and back to living. Back to being the optimistic nerd you're supposed to be."

"It doesn't matter," Sam says, turning to look at Dean. "None of it matters. We kill monster after monster, but there's always another one. We've spent our entire lives killing, but we haven't even made a dent in their numbers. All we get is pain and loss, and I'm sick of it."

There's a stretch of silence before Dean says, "Where the hell is all _this_ coming from?"

"He told me to guess how many monsters were out there and add a zero—add two zeros—and that was the real number. Most of them are just better at blending in and hiding than the ones we put down."

"Who? Clegg?"

Sam doesn't answer, but that's enough for Dean to know.

"We can't trust that guy, Sam," Dean says. "He lied about being an FBI agent. He could've lied about that, too."

"Why would he lie?" Sam asks. "It's not like he would've gained anything. Not when he was about to… kill me."

Dean's silent for a long time, staring at the door while Sam stares at him. He takes a deep breath before he says, "When that vamp told me that someone had you, I was terrified."

He pauses, not looking at Sam, but Sam isn't about to say anything to interrupt whatever Dean might say next.

"I don't always make it in time—I didn't in Cold Oak—and I always think that this might be the point where it finally ends for one of us. But I did make it. You're still alive, and they aren't."

Dean finally looks at him. "Don't you get it, Sam? It's not about killing every single creature out there. It's about killing one creature at a time. Saving one life at a time. We might not be saving the world, but one less creature out there could save _someone's_ world. Saving people. Hunting things. We don't do it to win, just to help."

Sam laughs softly. "When did you become the deep-thinker?"

Dean smiles a bit. "I guess I got it from you over the years."

Sam sits up and says, "You know we can't keep doing this, Dean. Billie won't always be on our side and keep letting us mess with natural order. We won't always find a last minute solution or get a last minute rescue. One time it really will be the end."

"I know."

"And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of feeling like I'm always fighting a losing battle. I'm sick of the loss and not knowing if today is going to be my last day. I'm sick of taking all these hits, and I'm not sure how many more hits I _can_ take."

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "We'll figure it out, okay? For now, get up. Spending all day in your room can't be good for you."

Dean stands and leaves the room, motioning for Sam to follow him, but Sam hesitates. Dean told him a lot of things, but they were all just words. He can get up and pretend that everything's okay, but that won't _make_ it all okay.

He does stand up, and he does get dressed and leave his room, but more to appease Dean than for any other reason. He goes through the motions, yet throughout the day, he finds himself asking the same question that filled his younger years, the years before Stanford.

When does it all end?

* * *

 **A/N:** Please leave a review!


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